Alan Unbound
I met Alan the first day of fifth grade at Ventura Elementary School. We were in Mrs. William’s class and our introduction was both as strange and as natural as one can imagine. You see, Mrs. Williams had a birth defect; one hand hadn’t developed four of the five fingers one is accustomed to seeing as part of a hand. She was very open about her nickname for the hand, one she invented: Knub. She welcomed any questions we might have about her Knub and in fact, invited us to touch it, if that was something that interested us.
I estimate that before she finished the word “interested,” both Alan and I had leap-frogged from the back of the classroom, hands out reached as if we were in an Olympic relay race. We arrived at virtually the same moment. Our two sweaty little paws met on top of hers and the three of us enjoyed (well, perhaps just two of us) what could have been misunderstood as a rather distasteful examination of our fifth grade teacher’s hand. Alan spoke first, “That’s so cool! How do you pick stuff up?” Not wanting to be left out, I added a subtle refinement: “Yeah?”
After another 20 or so questions we retreated to the back of the classroom to begin a year of school that for us, focused almost entirely on the knub and little else. This experience forged a unique bond between us; I can’t envision anything that could fulfill its role more effectively.
Back in the day, we didn’t have the abundance of fancy abbreviated diagnoses one sees today. ADHD wasn’t a thing; you were just an impatient child with lots of energy. You got in trouble in class for interrupting and generally behaved in a sort of bouncy, chaotic manner. You know the type: quite charming, often in detention.
I was that kind of kid. Sort of.
At home, I felt like an outsider — more of a consultant called upon occasionally when my parents or brothers needed something from me, usually emotional support. Surprisingly, I was considered the quiet one. I couldn’t compete with world-class talkers, so why try? My twin brother, Steve, was a born talker. It’s no surprise he became a well-known, talented writer, and very outspoken on issues that concerned him — of which there are many. My older brother Dave was basically a genius. What can I say? We worship older brothers even when they’re punching us in the face, deserved or not.
But my mother took the prize. Bronx-born, Jewish, well educated, funny when not being critical (and often when), she was the kind of talker who could recite an entire monologue while swimming laps, including the portion where her head was underwater. And when she drove our family car, whether alone or with others, she was simply too busy talking to bother shifting out of first gear. We finally gave up and traded in her car for an automatic version.
I frequently sought friendships outside my home with kids from different family backgrounds, often children of divorce, which was common in Northern California at the time. These environments somehow allowed me to express various facets of my personality that were not accepted by my family, including my frequent tendency to become over stimulated and easily excitable (what the kids today refer to as being a “spaz”).
Alan became my best friend and remained so until age 13. It’s hard to describe him in human terms. He was like the Tasmanian Devil, but less domesticated. In the category of over stimulation and excitability, Alan was a legend. Born gifted, he simply never stopped moving.
His family life, if you can call it that, was fascinating. He had no bedtime. He had a diet that consisted of 80% Pop Tart, 20% Swanson TV Dinner. In other words, the dream diet of any child aged 4–18 (Confession: Still my dream diet). In the roughly five years we were close friends, I never once saw Alan eat a vegetable or piece of fruit. This begs the obvious question: would he even be able to recognized either, should he accidentally find himself in their vicinity?
Alan essentially raised himself in a jungle of old magazines and fast food wrappers. He lived in a house that was adjacent to our suburban version of the wild jungle: Robles Park. Alan spent most of his days in the tree fort and branches of the huge redwood trees that bordered the park and his backyard.
This was appealing to a kid who felt like his home life was a prison. Alan had the freedom to eat TV dinners while actually watching TV — without a parent present. His mother, who was a depressed, divorced shut-in, almost never left her bedroom. I would rarely see or hear her except when Alan was in the bathroom. She would yell from her room, “Wipe, Flush, Wash” and repeat this until he was done.
She would emerge from time to time, in a ill-fitting bathrobe and slippers, and call to Alan to return home. It was almost like an animal call: AAAALLLLANNNNNNN. Wait 10 seconds. AAAALLLLANNNNNNN. It echoed through the park; a pitch perfect screech that was guaranteed to reach Alan’s wild animal-like hearing. Eventually, he would climb through the branches and drop to the ground with a grunt “What?”
Sleepovers at Alan’s house were pure bliss. Like the Spaniards we weren’t related to, we ate very late — around 11PM. However, unlike the Spanish, we dined while watching a Creature Features Midnight Movie on Channel 2. Our menu consisted of our own version of Tapas: Pop-Tarts in various flavors and colors, with Alan always recommending the perfect soda to pair with our savory course. Dessert had to be even sweeter than what we had just consumed, which meant one or more boxes of Cracker Jack. For anyone under the age of 100, Cracker Jack was a frighteningly sweet confection — often store-bought or, more often, stolen — consisting of caramel-coated chunks of stale popcorn, peanuts, and most of my baby teeth, all packaged in colorful boxes adorned with a strange androgynous mascot sailor. An interesting aside: This character was voted the most popular brand mascot 16 years running by the American Association of Pedophiles before they were rightfully removed from the awards committee in 1974.
In addition to the tooth-encrusted clumps of sugar, each box contained a toy surprise, which was almost always fresher and tastier than the surrounding “food-like” ingredients. A decoder ring was one of the many toy prizes you might find lodged in your throat if you dared to consume the contents of the box as all children do: tear open the top with whatever remains of your teeth, lift the box skyward, turn it 180 degrees toward the ground, intercept it with your mouth open, inhale deeply, and then seek the help of one or more parents after a sibling laughs in your face and says something like, “I’m not going to help you get that out of your throat because you deserve to die, Ba-ha-ha!”
But all this was just preparation for the star of the show: Tee-Pee-ing. If you’re unfamiliar with this activity, the term refers to “toilet papering.” This ritual is more of a spiritual rite of passage for suburban adolescent boys, akin to an Aboriginal “walkabout.” It involves the uninvited nocturnal decoration of a neighbor’s tribal land and dwelling structures. We used thin sheets of paper wound into tight cylindrical scrolls, typically found in one’s own bathroom. It wasn’t unusual to use up to twelve rolls of this sacred paper during a single outing. This may not sound like a big deal until you factor in morning dew or, if the gods were kind, a light rain.
Looking back, it occurs to me that the neighboring homeowners must have had a sort of soft spot for us — or perhaps forgiveness or tolerance for our ritual. We were never punished or even accused, despite the damning evidence: Alan and I lived just a block and a half from each other. If you drew a line connecting the homes we targeted, it would lead directly to each of our houses.
I only met Alan’s father once, and he struck me as somewhat arrogant. He divorced Alan’s mother when Alan was about six and moved just far enough away to avoid being actively involved in his upbringing. He seemed happier with his young new girlfriend in a town called Los Gatos, which would later become home to Netflix and had a population even wealthier than Palo Alto’s at that time.
I believe this was the true basis of our powerful yet unspoken bond. Though I wasn’t fatherless, I was frequently fighting with my own father, and those conflicts were becoming more intense — sometimes physical. One episode stands out, literally, as you will soon learn.
My father decided we would go on a hiking trip together for the weekend. I didn’t want to go for various reasons and was acting out, mainly by refusing to help him prepare the gear and supplies for the trip. My smart-aleck attitude escalated until he snapped. He hurled an 18-count bundle of Babybel Mini Original Snack Cheese at my face, busting my upper lip open. I became hysterical and fled the house, running as fast as I could to Alan’s. Blood dripped into my mouth and onto my shirt. It tasted sharp and, for some reason, different from the blood that comes from a scab (not that I ever picked or tasted a bloody scab, wink wink).
I hid out at Alan’s house, buried in a pile of clothes in his bedroom closet, trying to remain quiet and trembling as my father approached the front door. Alan, the wild child and my partner in all reckless activities, bravely held off my father.
“Alan, I know Mike is here!”
“No, Dr. Almond (my friends were instructed to call my parents Dr. and Dr. Almond instead of ‘Mr. and Mrs.’), he isn’t here. Sorry.”
“Alan!” My father was furious.
“Sorry, haven’t seen Mike today.” Alan was so cool and collected.
Eventually, my father retreated. I remained in the closet for another hour before emerging. I didn’t return home until later that night. My mother met me at the door, furious. “Your father took David (my older brother) instead of you on the trip. You really hurt him. I’m very angry. And I’m ashamed of you, Michael.”
While I felt guilty and horrible about the whole incident, I couldn’t help but focus on the fact that my mother didn’t notice that I too had been really hurt: the large blood-caked gash on my upper lip would soon become a small but distinct and permanent scar.
You may think this is odd, but I happen to love scars on the upper lip. I think they’re sexy as hell. The way I made peace with the fact that my father broke a tiny part of my face was the knowledge that others felt the same way I do. It’s a “thing” — a kink, just like eyebrow scars. My lip scar, for which he was responsible, has either contributed to or been a major factor in my getting “laid” (once, but it counts, right?).
Only recently did I make what now seems like an obvious connection. Alan wasn’t just standing up to my father; his defiance was very real. However, my father was likely a stand-in for his own. Alan was, in his own way, protesting the neglect and hurt he felt from his father’s behavior. By refusing to give me up and preventing my father from entering our “safe” space, he was sending a message to the world — and to himself: No fathers allowed here. A message to stay away probably felt easier to handle than the feelings he had been internalizing for years: his father had left and showed little interest in entering Alan’s home or life.
What a great friend I had in Alan. He wasn’t just a wild child after all. In fact, he was a brave and powerful young man. It’s no wonder I found myself growing more attracted to him as we inched our way toward puberty. Nothing ever came of it physically, but if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that Alan was my first homosexual crush (dare I say love), though I didn’t understand it as such at the time, and we certainly never discussed anything remotely close to the topic.
Alan remained a friendly acquaintance through out high school. We didn’t have a dramatic split; we just naturally oriented toward our natural orientations, if you follow. Long before I knew for sure I was gay, I was developing interests in areas and people that were quite different from those of Alan.
The last time I heard from him was about ten years ago. We hadn’t spoken or seen each other in decades, but for some reason, he sent me an email. I loved the message because it was so very Alan in all the ways I remembered him:
“Mike? Is this you?”
I smiled and let out a little laugh. Only Alan would be so adorable and goofy as to send an email to someone named Mike and ask them if it really was Mike.
Yes, it’s really me, Alan.
